The Marine & The Beauty Queen Ch. 02

Four hours, and about 150 questions later about the location of my wound, we finally arrived at her father's ranch.

The drive itself was fascinating. The land was so different from anything I had seen before, even different from the land around Fort Hood, and vastly different from my native North Carolina, and Iraq.

I also found out that most Texans (including Susan), considered speed limit signs to be mere suggestions as to the minimum speed they should be doing.

Initially, after we left Corpus Christi, the land was incredibly flat, but several hours later we begin to enter rolling hills with immense pastures.

In North Carolina, my father owned a little over 125 acres, with 75 in fields, and about 50 acres in forest. Of the 75 acres of land we plowed, and planted, every year we tended half that. So, one year we would tend 37 acres, and let the other 38 acres lie "fallow" for a year, to rebuild the soil. The next year, we would switch fields.

Our largest field was about 10 acres, with five to seven acres being more normal. Almost every field was completely surrounded by forests, with narrow farm roads being the only access from one field to another.

In Texas, most of the pastures seemed to be larger than my father's entire farm.

The further we drove, the hilly the country became, and the pastures were filled with lush, green grass.

When I remarked about that to Susan, she explained.

"We've really had a lot of rain this year," Susan said, "normally the fields aren't quite that green, and the grass isn't that heavy."

In North Carolina, we had huge oaks, and towering poplar and pine trees. In Texas, there weren't many trees, and most were rather . . . well . . . low and gnarly, or scrawny. When I asked Susan about the trees, she said they were "mesquite."

By now, we had been driving for about three-and-a-half hours, so I asked Susan how much farther to her Dad's ranch?

"Actually, the land on both sides of the road is his," she said. "We should get to the farmhouse in another 30 minutes."

Wait, I thought. We are already on her Dad's property and it will still take 30 minutes to get to the farmhouse? And Susan wasn't exactly driving slowly.

"Just how much land does your father own?" I asked her.

"I'm actually not exactly sure," she said, "but I think it is about five thousand acres, plus he leases some more."

When I didn't say anything, Susan looked over at me, then burst out laughing before reaching over and pushing my bottom jaw shut.

"Really, Dennis, when your mouth is open like that, it makes you look kind of goofy," she said.

"Five thousand acres?" I finally manage to blurt out, "plus leases more?"

"Look, Dennis," Susan began explaining, "you told me your father has 125 acres, and you farm about 75 acres?"

I nodded yes.

"Let's suppose that he could, instantly, transfer all 50 acres of trees into pastureland, thick with the kind of grass you have up there. How many horses do you think he could raise on that 50 acres?"

I told her I wasn't sure.

"Probably about two horses per acre. Depending on what size barn you have, and how many stalls, possibly even three horses per acre. Let's say 150 horses. Now you would never push it that much, but it would be possible.

"In North Carolina, and places like Kentucky, you talk about horses per acre.

"Down here, we talk about acres per horse. I have been driving northwest, since leaving Corpus Christi. If instead, we had stayed in the valley below Corpus Christi, and driven straight west, or slightly southwest, the land is very different.

"It would be as hot as you know what, with scruffy dry grass, and trees that look like they are dying of thirst. Down there, you would only be able to raise about one horse for every 10 acres.

"Around here, my father can easily raise one horse per five acres, but he never even comes close to that. In fact, he usually tries to maintain that ratio of one horse per 10 acres.

"In North Carolina, 150 horses would require 50 acres. Here, with my father, 150 horses require 1,500 acres! And he has a lot more than 150 horses, plus cattle."

When I didn't say anything, Susan again looked over and started laughing before reaching over and pushing my mouth shut for the second time. She again made a little remark about how "goofy" I was looking.

I stuck my tongue out at her!

She laughed, stuck her tongue out at me, then Susan continued her ranching lesson.

"You also have to remember that, even though we have had a lot of rain around here, there are other places on the ranch where they have had no rain.

"So every year you have to consider that anywhere from 10 to 20 percent of the ranch land cannot be grazed for one reason or another. Plus another 10 to 20 percent simply never will be usable as grazing land, since it is too rocky or hilly."

I was still in shock at the thought of anyone owning 5,000 acres, so the rest of drive kind of passed in a blur.

Finally, though, Susan turned onto another dirt road, and in about five minutes we came onto a farm, filled with different buildings.

Susan stopped the car, and started explaining what the different building were. Some, like the barns (there were three) I could have figured out myself, but others, including one she called the dog house kind of threw me.

"Dog house?" I exclaimed, looking at the single story building that must have been well over 100 feet long.

Susan started laughing again, and said that was what they called the bunk house in Texas, where the hired cowboys used to live.

"Now, of course, most have their own homes and drive here every morning," she said. Susan said her father had about 15 to 20 hired cowboys at any given time.

"A few actually live in the dog house, but most just drive here," she added.

Susan then resumed driving.

No sooner had we pulled up in front of a sprawling, two-story house than the door opened and out walked the biggest man I think I have ever seen.

I am not exactly small. I'm just a tad under six feet, and weigh about 190 pounds.

He had to be at least 6 feet, 6 inches, and probably tipped the scales a little south of 300 pounds.

"Look Daddy," Susan began in a little girl voice, "this Marine with an injured leg followed me home. Can I keep him?"

"A Marine? A Marine?" he began in a very gruff voice and very stern visage, "you brought a Marine onto our property? I thought I raised you better than that Susan?"

Then he smiled, and stuck out a hand about the size of a medium turkey.

"Former Staff Sergeant John Williams, U-S-M-C," he said, "Semper Fi!"

"Corporal Dennis Osborne," I offered. "Please to make your acquaintance, Sir. Semper Fi!"

My hand was completely swallowed in his, but much to my surprise he did not try to crush my fingers.

Mr. Williams grabbed my small bag, Susan handed me my crutches, and I hobbled inside.

One of the first questions Mr. Williams ("Please call me John") asked was about my leg.

Before I could even answer, Susan jumped in to explain that I had been injured when the truck I had been riding in crashed during a training exercise.

"But Daddy, I also know he has a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart," she said, "but he won't tell me anything about those."

John didn't say anything for a few minutes, but Susan and I could both see him turn slightly pale.

"Susan," he finally began, "I have never told you this, but I also have several medals I received in Vietnam – including the Navy Cross, the Silver Star, and two Purple Hearts. When a veteran doesn't want to talk about his medals – well it usually means it is too painful for him to remember."

By now, John – big, big John – actually had tears running down his face.

Susan had been sitting beside me on the couch, holding my hand, but now she jumped up and ran over to her father and hugged him.

"I'm sorry Daddy, I never even thought about that. And I'm sorry I made you remember something you have been trying to forget."

By now, of course, I am feeling terrible. John probably thinks I did something heroic that I don't want to talk about, and of course the truth – at least as it concerns the Purple Heart – is completely different.

"John, Susan, I think I need to explain something," I began.

"First, the Silver Star and the Purple Heart have nothing to do with each other. In fact, they happened about three months apart."

I then explained about the Silver Star, and our compound being attacked at night, and how I, and my best friend, managed to hold off the insurgents until the members of my platoon could reorganize and repulse the attack. I had lost my best friend during that attack, and I think they could both see the pain I was experiencing as I remembered.

I felt my face flush as I began telling them about the RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) that had exploded in our compound months earlier, several hundred feet from where I was standing.

At first, I did not think anyone had been injured in that explosion.

Then one of my buddies telling me he thought I was bleeding.

About going to the first aid tent, and founding out that I had been hit by a fragment of metal.

By now, Susan had rejoined me on the couch and was holding my hand again, staring intently into my eyes. She actually had tears brimming her brilliant blue eyes.

"Susan, John, the fact of the matter is – I was wounded . . . I was wounded in the ass."

Susan blinked, and I heard a small chuckle from John.

I then told them about the 30-second surgery to remove the tiny fragment, about getting a band-aide, and how the tetanus shot hurt worse than the wound.

As I began telling them about all the ribbing I received, we were all laughing. And when I explained about the formation to actually present me with the Purple Heart for my butt wound, and the ribbing that followed, and especially about having a big fluffy pillow on my seat every single day, we were practically rolling on the floor.

Eventually, we ended up in the dining room where we all ate a Texas-sized dinner. I can't remember ever eating as much before.

I don't know that I have ever felt so . . . well, comfortable with other people before. I had known Susan for less than a week, and John only a few hours, but it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world for me to be sitting there, talking with them.

When we went back to the living room, John talked about the ranch and his construction business for several hours. And Susan sat beside me the entire time, holding my hand.

Every so often, very unselfconsciously, Susan would lean over and give me a little kiss (or two), or lean her head against my shoulder.

I said that Susan was doing this very unselfconsciously, even though her father was sitting just a few feet away. BELIEVE ME, I was very conscious that this mountain of a man was sitting there glaring at me.

Well, to be honest, I really can't say he was glaring. In fact, a time or two I thought he almost smiled – a little – but I was paying a lot more attention to those monstrous hands of his which could probably have rippled me into little pieces!

By 10 pm, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I was yawning practically non-stop.

"Well, I think it's time I went to bed," John said.

"Susan, which bedroom do you want Dennis to take?" he asked.

"Actually, Daddy . . . Dennis will be sleeping in my bed tonight – with me," Susan said as she looked directly into my eyes with a beautiful smile on her face.

Oh, Shit!

I knew I was dead!

Not only is John a former Marine, not only is he the biggest man I have ever met, he is also a man who obviously loves his only child. And with my bum knee, I can't even run!

All I could do was wait for John to kill me!

Instead, much to my surprise, I heard John say in an incredibly gentle voice, "Yea, seeing the two of you together, I kinda thought so."

We all stood up, and father and daughter hugged each other. John kissed her on the cheek.

Then this massive man walked over to me, and stuck out his turkey size hand again. I shook his hand for a minute, then he grabbed me in a bear hug and I heard him gently whisper, "You take good care of her, you hear? She has suffered enough."

I, in an equally low voice, assured him that I loved his daughter and would never do anything to hurt her.

Without saying another word, John turned and left the room, leaving Susan and I together.

"Are . . . are you ready to go to bed?" Susan asked, as her face flushed bright red.

I didn't say a word, just opened my arms wide and then Susan was in my arms holding me tightly, and I – for the first time – really hugged this beautiful woman.

We held each other for several minutes, until Susan leaned back a little and asked, "Well, are we going to stay here for the rest of the night?" God, she is so beautiful when she smiles!

I told her that I wanted to pick her up and carry her to her room, but that "I couldn't, for two reasons."

"Two reasons? What two reasons?" she asked, very puzzled.

"Well, first, even though you don't weigh quite as much as Debra . . ."

That was as far as I got before I gasped in pain, because her two hands, which had been very gently holding me suddenly turned into razor sharp claws, digging into my back and spine.

"Are you sure you don't want to try that again?" Susan asked, with a very sweet smile.

"Yes," I said, "well first . . . even though you are as light as a feather (the claws began to withdraw from my back) I think even a feather might be too much for my knee right now."

"Much, much better," she declared, "and the second reason?"

"And the second reason (and I could feel the claws starting to dig in again as Susan whispered, "Careful.") . . . and the second reason is I have absolutely no idea where your room is!"

Susan laughed, then grabbed my hand and said, "Well come on Prince Frog, I'll show you."

"Prince Frog," I inquired, in a very injured tone. "I thought it was supposed to be Prince Charming?"

"After what you just said about my not weighing quite as much as Debra, it's Prince Frog until I decide otherwise."